


Ghosts

by SailorChibi



Series: Little Draco verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Carrying, Crying, Cuddling, Daddy Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Feels, Draco Malfoy Has Issues, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Gen, Happy Ending, Hugging, Infantilism, Little Draco Malfoy, Little Headspace, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Narcissa Malfoy's A+ parenting, Nightmares, POV Harry Potter, Pacifiers, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Harry Potter, Sleepy Cuddling, age play as a coping mechanism, can you blame the poor kid i mean really, caregiver harry potter, draco malfoy gets a hug, harry potter is bored after the fall of voldemort, harry potter needs to be needed, non sexual age play, non sexual infantilism, thumb sucking, toddler draco malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: After returning to Hogwarts for his eighth year, Harry is restless. Everyone else seems fine - everyone but Draco Malfoy, who drifts around the castle like a ghost. Then Harry discovers something about Draco. Something that might just save them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really done an HP age play fic but I am pretty excited about this one.

Hogwarts isn’t the same.

It only takes Harry about five minutes to figure that out. But it’s not like he can _say_ that, not when Hermione is so happy that he and Ron agreed to return with her. So Harry just smiles and shoves all of his discomfort down into his gut, pretending that he’s perfectly content to have returned for his eighth year. Pretending that all the new faces are fine, that the blatant ostracization of the Slytherins is fine, pretending that persistent boredom and numbness that plagues him is all fine.

Out of everyone, he thinks that Ginny is probably the one who knows how uncomfortable he feels. Her brown eyes see a little too much sometimes. She knew, before Harry ever needed to say a word, that they wouldn’t be getting back together, and she never called him out on it even though he would have understood if she had. It’s just one more way that all of the Weasley’s are too good to him.

He spends the first few weeks at Hogwarts just trying to get used to being back in school. It feels weird to know that he can go to the kitchens and have ample food whenever he’s hungry, or to not have to wake up half a dozen times every night. The eighth years share a dormitory in one of the towers, but they only have to share with one roommate. After the fifth time Harry lurches awake, wand in hand and a nasty curse on his lips that fizzles out uselessly against the wall instead of on an unsuspecting dorm mate, he blesses McGonagall for her foresight. Ron, at least, knows how to duck.

But at first, he also curses her a little bit too – metaphorically, of course. Because with all of the eighth years beneath one roof, it gives Harry ample time to resume one of his favourite Hogwarts pastimes: watching Draco Malfoy.

“You’re doing it again,” Hermione says one Wednesday morning. It’s late September and they’re camped out in front of the fire. Autumn is colder than usual this year.

“Hmm?” Harry says absently, not looking away from his target. Draco is sitting in a chair in the corner, all curled in on himself. He looks small and tired, though Harry’s not surprised by the latter. All of them have nightmares, and he can’t begin to imagine what Draco saw all those months that Voldemort was living in Malfoy Mansion.

Ron looks up and sighs loudly. “Bloody hell. I thought you got over this in sixth year.”

“He didn’t get over it. He just never had the chance to keep it up in seventh,” Hermione says. “I think it’s kind of cute.”

“ _Cute_?! Merlin, Hermione, that’s Malfoy!”

“Oh, Ron. Don’t you think it’s time we put all that behind us? You heard Headmistress McGonagall; we should be showing a united front. Especially in light of how bad it’s got for the younger Slytherins.”

“But it’s _Malfoy_ ,” Ron whines.

Draco gets up, tucking his book beneath his arm, and walks over to the door. In black robes, with his pale hair, he looks like a ghost. Harry frowns and stands, nearly stepping on Susan Bones in his hurry to follow. She squeaks and yanks her leg out of the way at the last moment. He mumbles and apology and hastens towards the door, barely noticing the way that Sue Li and Terry Boot both leap aside as he barrels past.

He knows where Draco is going. Draco only ever spends time in four places: their dormitory, where things are tense but not outright hostile, the library, where Madame Pince’s eagle eye dissuades any bullying, their classrooms, where there are professors, or the kitchens, where the House Elves are quick to serve but don’t otherwise care who you are. Dinner wasn’t that long ago, which means Draco is headed for the library. 

The problem is that while Madame Pince controls what happens inside, the corridors are considered free game. Prefects and professors alike patrol at night, but Harry knows better than anyone that they can only stop what they see. It’s far too easy for a stray curse to find an innocent target. Thus far the eighth year Slytherins have gone mostly unchallenged, but Harry’s seen the way some of the student look at Draco. It’s a matter of time.

No one bothers Draco, possibly because it’s still early, and he makes it to the library unscathed. Harry walks in as inconspiciously as possible. Several students look up at him and a wave of whispering rolls through the room, which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The attention hasn’t diminished following the end of the battle. If anything, it’s worse. That’s one of the reasons why he agreed to come back to Hogwarts; at least within the castle, reporters can’t get to him.

There’s a table that Draco prefers, tucked away in the corner. Other students don’t like it because one of the table legs is shorter than the others, which makes the table wobble precariously if you’re careful. It’s ruined more than one carefully written essay, Harry knows. Yet Draco takes a seat with a small stack of books and buries his head in them as though they’re the most fascinating things in the world.

“Oh Harry, are you watching Draco again?” a bright voice says behind him, and Harry flushes. 

“Hello, Luna,” he says, trying not to sound as stroppy as he feels. When he turns around, it’s to see Ginny and Luna at a table together. They’re both grinning at him.

“That must be it. Why else would Harry be in the library if Hermione isn’t with him?” Ginny says, her eyes twinkling.

“I visit the library sometimes,” Harry says indignantly. 

“Harry, I will give you a galleon if you can tell me where the Transfiguration books are located,” Ginny says, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hand.

Harry looks around, bewildered. “Er – over there?” He points in a random direction. Honestly, he’s never understood how people just seem to _know_ which books are where. The shelves aren’t labeled. He’s often wondered if maybe there’s a spell of some kind, or if perhaps you have to learn it through osmosis. That would certainly explain how Hermione is so good at it.

“Not even close,” Ginny says. She pats a free chair. “Sit. You can see Draco from here without being super creepy about it.”

“I’m not creepy,” Harry mutters, but he sinks into the chair regardless. He looks over the papers they’ve got spread across the table. Most of what the eighth years are learning is nearly identical to the seventh year curriculum. They just don’t take their classes together. 

“We’re learning about Blibbering Humdingers,” Luna says, very seriously.

Harry blinks at her.

Ginny grins. “We’re doing some research for Charms,” she says. 

Charms is one of the subject Harry is taking, along with Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfigurations. He leans forward. “What are you looking up?”

Ginny starts to talk, with Luna chiming in on occasion, but Harry finds himself only partially paying attention. His eyes wander back to Draco. He knows for a fact that Draco is taking Charms, Transfigurations, and Potions as his three N.E.W.T. classes, but he’s also seen Draco with books on Herbology and Ancient Runes. From what Hermione tells him, it’s not uncommon for students to continue doing learning on their own in subjects that help to support their core N.E.W.T. classes.

Or maybe that’s just Hermione’s explanation for why she’s always got books on Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Herbology, Astronomy, and even History of Magic in her bookbag. 

It must be exhausting. Harry sometimes struggles to keep up with his three subjects, and Defence Against the Dark Arts has never been that difficult for him. He stares at Draco and wonders whether Draco ever takes a break. He never goes flying anymore, Harry knows that for a fact. Does he ever just… sit in the sunshine? Or take a walk around the lake? Or even stop to take a breath?

Increasingly, he worries that the answer is no. And he doesn’t know _why_ it bothers him as much as it does, but it’s like an itch he can’t scratch no matter how hard he tries. It’s not even that he’s worried that Draco is up to something, because following the war Harry hasn’t seen anyone as broken as Draco Malfoy. The quiet, solemn boy drifting around the castle is almost worse than the haughty sod Harry used to have to deal with, but he can’t pinpoint _why_.

It’s perilously close to lights out when Harry turns his head to casually glance back at where Draco should be sitting and realizes, with a jolt, that Draco is gone. He doesn’t mean to gasp as loud as he does, but Ginny and Luna immediately look up from where they’re bent over a strip of parchment. Luna follows Harry’s gaze, earrings jingling, eyeing the now empty corner. 

“Did you see something, Harry?” she inquires.

“It’s more the lack of what he saw, love,” Ginny says. “Least Malfoy could’ve done was put his books back.”

Harry frowns. “I’ll get them.” Normally he would be following Draco back to the dorm. But he has no idea how long it’s been since Draco left, and he has to admit he’s curious to see what fascinates Draco so much that he comes to the library almost every night.

He gets up and makes his way over to the table. There’s half a dozen books, all of them obviously well read. Harry turns over the first one but doesn’t see a title, only a smooth cover. Sometimes, he knows, Madame Pince does that with books that are of a more questionable nature. It’s to keep other students from teasing too much. He sits down in the vacated seat and flips to a random page, curiosity fully invoked.

_Finding a Caregiver can be a difficult search for any Little, but more so for those who fall on the younger end of the spectrum. The more physical care that a Caregiver needs to provide, the more strenuous the search. Healer Anthony Syms suggests looking in your inner circle first: often, Littles encircle themselves with people who are already willing to care more than the average person. Based on the amount of trust that age play requires, it’s always best to begin with someone you already know rather than trying to build with a stranger if at all possible._

Harry pauses at the end of the paragraph, eyebrows furrowed. He re-reads the paragraph, but it still makes no more sense to him than it did the first time. Littles? Caregivers? Ageplay? The words mean nothing to him. He flips back to the very first page and finds the title: _A Little and their Caregiver: What it Means to Find Your Perfect Match in a Big World_.

He closes the book and look around at the others. A quick perusal of their titles reveals that all of them are about age play. Whatever this is it’s clearly a subject of fascination for Draco, and Harry finds himself wanting to understand more about it – more about Draco. Before he can think twice, he scoops all of the books up and heads over to Madame Pince. He sets the books down on her desk. 

“I’d like to sign these out, please,” he says.

She looks at him and then down at the books. Both of her eyebrows shoot up, nearly vanishing into the wings of her hair. It’s the kind of expression that usually comes before a comment, but much to Harry’s surprise Madame Pince says nothing. She waves her wand over the books and murmurs something under her breath. The books shimmer silver for a split second, then the light vanishes.

“They’re due back in four weeks, Mr Potter,” she says. “I trust you know better than to maim them in any way.”

“I won’t,” Harry promises, picking the books up again. “Thank you, Madame.”

He walks back over to Ginny and Luna. Ginny looks at the books curiously, but seems to know better than to prod. She and Luna are just about finished anyway; Harry walks them back to Gryffindor Tower and Ravenclaw Tower respectively, before heading back towards his own dormitory. His thoughts are whirling, grip on the books tight. He’s got tomorrow morning free, whereas Ron and Hermione are both otherwise occupied, and he intends to use the time very well.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes Harry about a week to figure out how he feels about age play. Much of those week is spent, much to the surprise of his friends, not watching Draco. Instead, he tries to stop paying so much attention to Draco Malfoy and devote time to the other people in his life who matter. He plays chess with Ron, goes flying with Ginny, sits by the lake with Luna, visits a couple of the greenhouses with Neville, does homework with Hermione. They all enjoy his attention and company, and Harry is overwhelmingly grateful for the opportunity to be able to give it.

When he gets time to himself that doesn't need to be occupied with homework, he reads the books from the library. He goes through them surprisingly quickly, but is ultimately left with more questions than answers. That's when he goes looking for Hermione, and finds her sitting in front of the fire working her way through a sizeable essay. Harry looks at the ink blotches staining her hands and chin and thinks twice about interrupting her - it didn't take the other eighth years long to figure out that you don't interrupt Hermione when she's in the zone - but then Hermione looks up and gives a weary smile.

"Hi Harry," she says, pushing her bushy curls out of her face. It leaves another smear of ink across her right temple. "What's up?"

"I think you've put more ink on your skin than your parchment," Harry tells her, laughing. He sits down across from her and takes out his wand, carefully aiming it at her face. He whispers the words to make the ink vanish. Hermione holds still unil he's done her face and then her hands.

"Thanks. I'm having a dreadful time with this Transfiguration essay," she says with a sigh.

"Which one is that?" He squints at her parchment.

"It's just some extra credit I'm doing," Hermione says, casting the spell to dry her scribbles. "Did you need something?"

"I was just wondering... I remember you telling me that Flourish and Blotts does mail order. How would I go about ordering books from them?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow, looking both intrigued and surprised. "They've got a catalogue," she says. "I pick up a new copy every summer when we go. You select what you want, send them the money by owl, and they owl you the books back. Why?"

"I'd like to order some."

"You?" Hermione says before she can stop herself, and then claps her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I'm just surprised. I know that reading isn't usually your thing."

"It's okay," Harry says, patting her arm. He knows that she's been very curious about what the books he's been reading over the past week. She's probed a couple of times, asking why he's been spending so much in the library or asking what he's researching, but Harry's deflected every time. It's not that he doesn't want Hermione to know. He would actually prefer if she did, if only because Hermione is _so good_ at researching even the most nonsensical topics and then being able to reguritate the information in a way that makes perfect sense. He knows she would be probably even be able to tell him why the idea fascinates him.

But he doesn't tell her, because it's not really his information to spread. Hermione is too smart for her own good: if she finds out Harry has been looking into age play, she'll want to know why. And it won't take her long to make the leap from Harry's sudden interest to his sudden _dis_ interest in Draco. From there, it would only take her seconds to realize that Draco must be the one who is into age play. Harry knows without asking that Draco would not want that information shared around, and so he smiles at Hermione.

"I promise it's nothing dangerous. I'm just doing some research into... personal stuff. The Hogwarts library is pretty limited."

Hermione looks at him searchingly for a moment, then nods. "I have to agree with you there. Hold on, I'll get you the book and an order form. They're usually pretty fast. It shouldn't take more than a day or two for your order to come."

She goes upstairs to the dormitory she shares with Sue Li and returns promptly with a thick catalogue and a piece of parchment. She shows him how to use his wand to search through the catalogue quickly, then how to fill out the order form. It's relatively simple so far as Harry can tell. He feigns interest in a section about animagus books until she leaves, then gets down to business.

By the time his order is finished, his trunk is approximately fifty galleons lighter. Harry makes the trek up to the Owlery to find a school owl, and ties the bag of gold and his order form to their leg. It makes him miss Hedwig, and he watches the barn owl go with a heavy heart. He does what he can not to dwell on those who were lost during the war, but sometimes a bolt of grief can hit unexpectedly. 

It takes the store less than twenty-four hours to send back his order. The first book Harry reads is about the history of age play. He’s very surprised to learn that age play is not uncommon in the wizarding world, but that it’s not exactly admired either. That would explain why Draco is being so secretive about it: Draco and his mother may have escaped any punishment, but Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to life in Azkaban and the Malfoy family name has been tarnished pretty severely. 

He puts his chin on his hands, peering down at the book thoughtfully. The thought of people looking down at him if they find out doesn’t bother him; Harry’s spent most of his life dealing with being judged and condemned for things that he didn’t even do. But he’s still not wholly sure why the idea of age play captivates him as much as it does. It’s not just the idea of Draco doing it, though that is part of it.

He wonders, not for the first time, if Draco is a Little or a caregiver. Harry himself isn’t too sure about being a Little. He’s never been cared for, and he thinks it would be really hard to start that now. He’s finally an adult, and finally capable of making decisions for himself. No one else can ‘decide what’s best for him’. Just the idea of it makes his skin crawl. No, being a Little is not on the table for him.

But being a Caregiver… now there’s an idea that’s much more appealing. It sounds weird, which is why he hasn’t spoken to anyone about it, but Harry struggles with the idea that no one _needs_ him now. For so long he was the Dursley’s maid, butler, cleaner, and personal chef. Their house couldn’t have run without Harry’s help. And then, when he’d come to Hogwarts, he was the Boy-Who-Lived and the wizarding world had always looked to him to solve the problem of Voldemort.

What would it be like to be a Caregiver? What would it be like to be _Draco’s_ caregiver?

“Mate? Are you in there now?”

The sound of Ron’s voice, while Harry is puzzling through this extraordinary idea, makes Harry panic. He hastily casts a Notice-Me-Not spell over the books and answers, “Yeah, I am.”

“What are you doing?” Ron pulls the bed curtain aside, peering in at Harry curiously. “Hermione and I are heading down to Hogsmeade. Want to come?”

Harry blinks, suddenly realizing that it is a Hogsmeade weekend. The little town is still struggling to rebuild itself after how much damage it sustained in the war, but the regular influx of money from Hogwarts students helps. Draco never goes to Hogsmeade; he never leaves the safety of the castle. He’s the only eighth year who doesn’t. This would, Harry thinks, be the perfect opportunity to speak to him without anyone else being around.

“Actually, I think I’m good,” Harry says casually. “But bring me back a frog, would you?”

“Sure. Just… don’t stay cooped up with books all day, alright? I don’t want you turning into Hermione.”

Harry snorts with laughter and waves him off. “Bet you’re not brave enough to say that where Hermione can hear you.”

“Well I’m not completely stupid,” Ron says with a smirk, heading out of the room.

After about thirty minutes, Harry closes his book and gets up. It’s quiet as he descends to the common room, and for a moment he thinks Draco is gone too – but then he spots the blond hair in the corner of the room. He moves closer and sees that Draco is concentrating on a scroll of parchment. There’s a potions book propped open against the arm of the chair, and he glances occasionally from book to parchment.

“What do you want, Potter?” Draco says after a moment, startling Harry. “Going to start watching me again and making sure I’m not going to do anything bad?”

“What?” Harry says, baffled. “That’s not why I watch you.” Too late he realizes that he should’ve denied watching Draco altogether, but it’s too late: pale blue eyes have popped up, staring at him in surprise.

“Do I dare ask why you watch me, then?” Draco says, his hand stilling.

Harry swallows. “Er, you can. But I don’t think I can give you a satisfactory answer. I don’t really understand it myself.” He dares to move closer. There’s no animosity in Draco’s tone, and he hasn’t even pulled his wand. That’s a huge step right there.

“Try me,” Draco says.

“I saw the books you read in the library,” Harry blurts out. “The books about… about age play.” He remembers to lower his voice at the very last second, cognizant of the fact that he can’t be wholly sure all of the other eighth years really did leave for Hogsmeade. Someone could be lurking up in the dormitories.

Draco stiffens. “So you’ve come to tease me, then?”

“No! Not at all. I’ve been reading up on it,” Harry says hastily, half-afraid Draco’s going to get up, hex him and storm away. He probably could’ve broached the topic with a lot more tact, but then that’s never been his strong point.

“You. Reading up on it,” Draco says, voice full of disbelief.

“Yes, really. I can show you all the books upstairs on my bed if you like,” Harry shoots back. Honestly, he does read sometimes!

“Fine,” Draco says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe Harry for a second. “Then why are you bringing it up? If you’ve done any research, you should know it’s _private_.”

It occurs to Harry that Draco looks a bit like a cornered kitten. His shoulders are tense, hands curled into loose fists, chin down, and he’s eyeing Harry like Harry is a predator and Draco is waiting for him to strike. That’s not how Harry wanted this conversation to go at all, and he takes a step back. He holds his hands up, showing that he’s not holding his wand.

“I’m not trying to threaten you. And I’m not trying to blackmail you either,” Harry says evenly. “I would hope, after all this time, you know me better than that.”

“I don’t know you at all,” Draco points out, and that stings. Harry plows on regardless.

“I was curious. I’ve never heard of age play before. Actually, there’s a lot about the wizarding world that I’ve never heard of – but that’s not the point. It was… interesting.” Harry looks away, discomfited. “It’s – I miss – having someone to look after, it sounds nice. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Draco echoes skeptically.

“This was a mistake,” Harry says to his shoes. What was he thinking, bringing this up with Draco Malfoy, of all people? If he’s truly interested in age play, then he shouldn’t be looking at someone with whom he has a history that, at best, can be termed _complicated_. It doesn’t matter that Draco has always captured his interest, or that Draco always worms his ways into Harry’s thoughts. None of that matters. 

“Potter –”

“Never mind. Sorry I interrupted you.” Harry’s never been one for running away, but he’s not ashamed to admit he flees the room. Draco doesn’t call after him, not that Harry really expected him to. Frankly, after that, Harry thinks he’ll be lucky if Draco doesn’t try to hex him the next time they see each other.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s something comforting about sitting beside Black Lake and watching the ripples of the water, though Harry can’t put his finger on what it is. He picks up a small rock and, with a quick flick of his wrist, sends it skipping across the water. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking beneath the surface on the fourth. Harry makes a face, because when he was younger he could easily get skips into the double digits.

Footsteps crunch behind him, and Harry holds in a sigh. He’s pretty sure that it’s Hermione, come to find out why he’s sulking beside the lake instead of inside working on homework assignments. He doesn’t bother to turn around on the off chance that Hermione will take a chance and go away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she picks her way through the leaves and sits down beside him.

“Go away, Hermione,” Harry mumbles rudely.

“I’m not Granger.”

Harry jerks in surprise, twisting so fast that his neck cracks, and finds himself staring at Draco. Draco doesn’t meet Harry’s awe-struck gaze, instead pulling his knees up against his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. He stares out at Black Lake, seemingly unaware of how very young the position makes him look. His face is small and pale, peeking out from between his knees.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, stunned to his core. “I thought you’d never speak to me again.” It’s been almost two weeks since he brought age play up to Draco, and he’s certain that Draco hasn’t so much as _glanced_ in Harry’s direction since. Harry should know: he’s been watching.

“I’ve been thinking,” Draco says.

“About?” Harry can feel his heart pounding. He wants to demand to know why Draco is here, but at the same time he has the feeling that it would be ridiculously easy to scare Draco off right now. If that happens, he’s fairly certain that Draco will never speak to him again.

“What did you mean when you said you missed having someone to look after?”

That’s the last thing Harry’s expecting, and he blinks dumbly for a moment. Draco still doesn’t look at him, staring fixedly out at the lake like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Harry can’t read him, can’t tell what Draco’s trying to get at here, but figures he might as well answer honestly. It can’t hurt at this point, and it’s not like Draco can spread that bit of information around without also implicating himself.

“I guess I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. What I really meant was that I miss being needed.” Uncomfortable, because it sounds stupid, he turns away to look back out at the lake too. Quietly, he adds, “No one needs me now.”

“Your adoring masses would suggest otherwise,” says Draco.

Harry snorts. “Those people don’t know me, and frankly they don’t really _want_ to know me. They want the Boy-Who-Lived, the Saviour of the Wizarding World.” He can’t stop the bitterness from creeping in. “No really needs _me_ and I suppose that’s a good thing in the long run, but…” He shakes his head ruefully. “I suppose Hermione would say this is just my hero complex rearing its ugly head again.”

Draco shifts slightly, but all he asks is, “Why age play, then? Why not a girlfriend and some babies?”

“It’s just not what I want right now,” Harry says carefully, seeing no need to confess that he’s not sure he’ll ever want either of those things. The thought of children is overwhelming. Harry never had a childhood; he doesn’t know how to be a father. Not really. Not to a baby. He thinks age play could be different.

Especially with someone like Draco, who never had much of a childhood either.

He sighs and makes himself keep going. “I didn’t know what I wanted until I found those books you were looking at in the library. Age play is… it’s just so _pure_. I like that,” he adds, somewhat wistfully. He can’t remember the last time he had something like that in his life. He’s spent too much time struggling to get out from under the cover of darkness.

“So why me?” Draco turns, at last, to look at Harry. His eyes are pale silver in the fading light.

“Because at least I can be sure that you can see past the fame,” Harry admits, meeting his gaze head-on. “I don’t want someone who would… you know, do this for the wrong reasons. And even if I did decide to look elsewhere, I have no clue how to start. None of the books I’ve read explained how you’d go about finding a Little. It’s not like I can take out an advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_.”

“So I’m a safe last resort,” Draco says, and it’s hard to tell how he feels about that.

Harry shrugs, not ready yet to say that Draco, for some reason he can’t discern, is always his first choice. “I’m curious. You seem to know about it. I’m guessing you’re a Little. I would definitely be a Caregiver. It made sense to me, that’s all.”

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or not that you think I would be a Little.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Harry says, surprised. “You just… you seem like you need someone. That’s all.”

Draco holds himself very still. “And you’re volunteering to be that someone.”

“If you want.” Harry tries to make it sound light, casual, and knows that he fails miserably from the slight quirk of Draco’s lips. 

He’s not surprised when Draco doesn’t answer immediately. They’re both quiet for a long time, watching the way the late afternoon sun makes patterns on the water. Occasionally one of the merpeople surfaces, presumably to feel the sun on their bodies, but never for long. Harry makes himself release the tension he’s holding in his body, until he’s fully relaxed into the grass. Even if he never gets more than this, it’s not bad.

But then, just as suddenly as he’d come, Draco gets to his feet. “I want to show you something, Potter.”

“Okay,” Harry says, scrambling to his own feet. “Lead on.”

Draco looks momentarily surprised, as though he expected Harry to protest, before the surprise is wiped away to be replaced by that blank expression that Harry hates. He tips his head in acknowledgement and then turns to walk away, clearly expecting Harry to follow. Which Harry does, because he’s not stupid enough to think he’ll ever get another offer like this one.

They walk into the castle side by side, and it may be the first time that’s ever happened. Harry is conscious of the heads that swing in their direction, the shocked looks that follow them. Far from being ashamed, he squares his shoulders and looks every student in the face that he can. He wants them all to know that, for reasons he can’t yet discern, he cares about what happens to Draco Malfoy. Anyone who raises a wand to him will end up on the other side of Harry Potter’s wand.

Few people are willing to meet his gaze. Most look away, or lean towards their companions and whisper. A couple of sixth year Ravenclaws sneer. A group of fifth year Gryffindors all clutch at their wands, though no one makes a move and so Harry doesn’t draw his. Even a small clutch of Hufflepuffs make it a point to glare, though their expressions visibly soften with pity when they look at Harry – like they think Draco has somehow _made_ Harry do this.

If only they knew, Harry thinks, privately amused.

Draco walks the same way he always does, with his head up but his eyes on the ground. If he’s conscious of the attention, and surely he must be, he’s ignoring it. And Harry knows that the Slytherins, particularly the eighth years, have had a rough go of it since they came back – but he didn’t know it was like this. It reminds him of his second year, when everyone thought he was the heir of Slytherin, or his fourth year, when everyone thought he’d put his name into the Goblet.

They reach the seventh floor and Harry knows where they’re going, of course, but he’s too curious to know what he’ll find when they get there to ask questions. He watches Draco pace back and forth three times. The door forms on the wall and Draco moves over, grasps the doorknob and pushes it open. He steps inside and Harry follows, nearly trodding on his heels.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not this. His eyes sweep the room, taking in the enormous fireplace, the rocking chair right in front of it, the stack of brightly colored books on the stand. To his right is what looks like a mountain of pillows and plush toys, alongside a stack of green blankets. It looks like the kind of pile that a child might love jumping into; he doesn’t need to touch either the pillow or the toys to know how soft they would be.

“Is this where you…” Harry trails off, swallowing. His throat is dry. “Where you… play?”

“I can’t very well do it in my room,” says Draco, which is fair. Harry shares his dormitory with Ron. No one wanted to share with Draco, but finally Terry Boot begrudgingly agreed. The first two weeks of school, Boot wouldn’t shut up about all the protective charms and wards he put around his bed.

So Harry nods, and says, “How long have you been doing it for?”

“I indulged, on occasion, before,” says Draco, very quietly. “But it was never something I was comfortable doing in the manor. It’s not… proper.” He pauses briefly, cheeks colouring pink. “And it was never safe.”

Safe from his parents, or safe from Voldemort? The answer seems obvious, but, when Harry thinks about the cold rage that Lucius Malfoy was capable of, he’s not so sure it is. Image was everything to Malfoy, and Harry supposes that he wouldn’t have taken kindly to finding out that his son was… _is_ an active participant in something that isn’t well regarded in the wizarding world. 

“Now you have the Room, so you can do it all you like. I’m glad,” Harry says, reaching down to pick up one of the toys. It’s a white and black panda bear, with big blue eyes, and it’s even softer than he thought.

“I don’t do it very often. Only when I need a break,” Draco says quickly.

“Sometimes we all need a break.” Harry thinks of his life right now. Everything is comfortable. Ron and Hermione bicker like a married couple, his schoolwork is always up there waiting for him, he can go for a fly anytime he wants to. Comfortable. Familiar. Boring. Like going through the motions. He squeezes the toy without thinking.

“Hey! Don’t.” Draco grabs the toy away, holding it to his chest with the curve of one bony arm. The other hand strokes the toy’s ears gently. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. Dudley was possessive too when they were children, though that was more because Dudley never wanted to share. He doesn’t think that’s why Draco grabbed the toy away; he was fine with Harry holding it until Harry started to squeeze it. Then Draco took it, like he was worried that Harry might hurt the toy if he were permitted to keep holding it.

Just like a child might.

Harry smiles then. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Draco exhales in frustration, eyeing Harry. He _looks_ like a child right now, suspicious and uncertain, clutching the toy tightly. “Nothing about you and me has ever gone right, and I need this, Potter. I can’t afford to have it fucked up.”

“I won’t,” Harry says at once. “I can’t promise I’ll know what I’m doing, because I don’t, but I’ll do what I can. I just want to be part of it.” He wants it even more now that he’s seen how the room is set up. “It’ll be awkward, but I want to see if we can make it work.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then… then I’ll leave you to it, and figure something else out,” says Harry, hardly daring to hope. If he gets this chance, he’s going to do everything in his power to make Draco happy.

Draco looks at him hard for a long time, lips pursed, expression filled with skepticism and doubt. Finally, slowly, he nods. “Once. We can try it once.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

Once turns into twice, which turns into three times, and then into four times. Before Harry knows it, he and Draco have a standing appointment every Wednesday and Saturday night in the Room of Requirement for at least a couple hours at a time. He’s surprised by how _easy_ it is, because nothing in his life has ever been easy or simple – especially not where Draco Malfoy is concerned. 

But this is, and Harry _loves_ that. He can walk into that room and leave everything related to the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, at the door. It’s incredibly refreshing, and he finds that release seeping into other areas of his life. Even Ron and Hermione remark upon the fact that Harry is being more cheerful lately. He can’t tell them why, of course, but they both seem happy for him anyway.

Or at least, Hermione does. Ron still gags a bit every time Draco is mentioned. Ginny keeps giving him knowing smiles, and Luna’s remarked about his ‘nargles’ seem to be clearing up. Harry’s pretty sure they all think he’s dating Draco, and he’s content for now to let them continue to believe that. The truth would be too difficult to explain right now, considering that he and Draco haven’t really talked about what’s going on. There’s no label. Right now they’re technically just two blokes who hang out together.

He doesn’t like keeping secrets from his friends, especially when it’s a secret that makes him this happy. But he just needs more time. More time to figure out where this is going, more time to figure out if Draco wants it to continue, more time to figure out what all Harry himself really wants. He can’t fuck this up, because he’ll never get another chance, and above all…

Harry doesn’t want this to stop.

“Harry? You stopped reading.”

The soft voice draws Harry out of his thoughts, and he realizes with a start that Draco is looking at him with curious eyes. Harry smiles and closes the book on his lap. It’s one of Draco’s favorites, for all that _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day_ is a muggle book. It makes Harry wonder sometimes what other muggle books and toys Draco might enjoy.

“Sorry. I’ve just been thinking about Christmas,” Harry says carefully, watching Draco to see his reaction.

Draco’s face crumbles. He’s always easier to read when he’s in his headspace, and right now the dismay that’s clearly painted across his delicate features makes Harry’s heart ache. They both know that the reason Draco will be staying at Hogwarts for Christmas is because he doesn’t want to see his father. They don’t talk about Lucius much; Lucius Malfoy escaped Azakaban by the skin of his teeth, and he’s under house arrest for the next several years at least. Harry can only imagine Lucius’s rage, and he can’t blame Draco for not wanting to face that.

Besides, every once in a while Draco will drop a seemingly innocent comment that leads Harry to think that Draco’s childhood wasn’t nearly as glorious as Draco always tried to make it out to be. Now that Harry is older, and has a bit of perspective, he can see that Lucius deliberately molded Draco in his shadow. And Harry, out of everyone, knows how much of a struggle it is to force yourself to be something you’re not.

“What about it?” Draco says, and his voice is cool. 

“I think I might go back to Grimmauld Place,” says Harry, and Draco looks over at him in surprise.

“Really?” he says skeptically. “But you don’t like it there.”

“It’s got some bad memories, but I do own it. And if I’m not going to sell it, and I don’t want to because Sirius gave it to me, I feel like I should start doing something with it. Especially since I’m probably going to end up living there after we graduate. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d like… I’d like to change it into something better. Spite Walburga Black while I’m at it,” Harry says. “And I wondered…” 

Draco half-turns away, picking up one of the stuffed toys and clutching it on his lap. “What?”

“Would you like to come home for Christmas with me?”

Draco freezes, then turns back with a stunned look. “What?” he says again.

“I just thought it would be nice, that’s all. We wouldn’t be restricted to the Room of Requirement. We could do whatever we wanted and not have to worry about being caught, or someone seeing us.” The more Harry thinks about it, the more he likes the sound of it. The Room is amazing because it provides them with everything that they need. But it’s also kind of stifling at the same time. He wants to know if this odd, tenuous thing between him and Draco can exist outside the confines of this room.

“You want me to stay with you for two weeks over the holidays,” Draco says slowly. “You’re mad. Your family will think you’ve gone round the bend!”

“Actually, they’ll just keep thinking that we’re dating,” Harry says with a shrug.

“D-dating?” Draco repeats, his cheeks colouring pink. “And you’re – what? Alright with that?”

“Ron and Hermione already think that. So does Ginny, for that matter. It’s pretty likely that the rest of the family already knows.” And they probably think he’s crazy, Harry doesn’t add, but they’ll come around. He knows by now that the Weasleys will support him in whatever he does, even if that means tolerating Draco Malfoy. 

Draco stares at him for a long moment. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he says at last.

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry says carelessly. “They know we’re spending time together, and that seemed like the most believable lie.”

Except he’s not so sure it is a lie, to be honest. Sometimes he and Draco don’t age play together. Sometimes they just sit and read, or play chess, or turn the Room into a field so they can go flying. Harry’s finding that he likes those times almost as much as he does when they’re age playing, and, while he’s not wholly sure what that means yet, it definitely means _something_.

“And your solution to people thinking that is for me to go home with you?” Draco says.

“I don’t care what people think, Draco. I stopped caring about that a long time ago. You can come if you want, but it’s okay if you’d rather not. Either way, it doesn’t change anything. I just wanted to extend the invitation.”

Draco chews his lower lip, then brings his right hand up and brushes his thumb across his mouth. He’s been doing that more and more, Harry’s noticed, and it makes him wonder if maybe Draco likes to suck his thumb. Maybe he even likes dummies. Harry hasn’t seen anything that babyish in the Room, though. So far, they’ve mostly stuck to childish things, like playing with the stuffed toys and reading books together.

“I don’t know,” Draco says finally. “I’ll think about it.”

Harry nods. “That’s fair. Do you want to read some more, or are we done?”

“We’re done,” Draco says. He seems to take notice of what he’s doing and stops, pulling his hand away from his mouth. “I have an essay to work on, anyway.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Good night, Draco.”

“Good night,” Draco mumbles.

Harry sets the book aside, gets up, and leave. The instant he’s outside, he leans against the wall and sighs. Okay, so that didn’t go as miserably as he thought it might – but it also didn’t go as well as he hoped. Draco didn’t jump at the chance to come home with him. Which is understandable, Harry supposes: it’s not like they spend every moment of the day together now, and this is big.

Yet he wants it. He wants it a lot. He has the feeling that what they’ve done so far is just the appetizer, and he wants to know what it’s _really_ like. There’s more to this. There has to be. And this Christmas is an opportunity for himself to find out, if only Draco will agree. At the same time, he knows he can’t push it: Draco will immediately shut down if he thinks he’s being pushed into something, no matter how well-intentioned Harry may be.

He rubs at his forehead, sighing, and makes the walk back on his own. Hermione and Ron are sitting in front of the fire, thankfully not sharing the same chair this time. Ron’s leafing through a Quidditch magazine, while Hermione is scribbling away at a Transfigurations essay. Harry walks in and sinks down into the chair beside Ron, idly glancing at the cover of the magazine.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asks, closing the magazine. “You look all mopey. Is this about Malfoy?” His lips curls a bit when he says Draco’s name.

“I asked him to come home with me for Christmas,” Harry admits. 

Hermione gasps. “You did? Oh, Harry!” She drops her quill and beams. “That’s wonderful!”

“It is?” Ron says.

“Yes, of course. It means you’re really serious about this,” says Hermione.

“Don’t see how that’s wonderful,” Ron says under his breath. Hermione swats him and he yelps. Harry rolls his eyes at their familiar antics.

“He said he wasn’t sure,” he says glumly. “I mean, I’m not surprised… but I was hoping he’d say yes. He said he would think about it. I suppose he’s worried that word will get back to his parents and make things difficult.”

“That makes sense,” Hermione says. “But there’s still a week to go. He may say yes.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Harry says, sighing. 

“You can come home with me instead if you want,” says Ron. “Mum would love to have you.”

“Thanks, but I really do want to get started on Grimmauld Place. I’d like to have work done on it while I’m at school so it’s ready for the summer,” says Harry. “I might pop over on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, though. Kreacher’s cooking can’t compare to your mum’s.”

Ron nods sagely. “No one’s cooking compares to Mum’s.”

“What are you doing, Hermione?” Harry says, suddenly realizing that he doesn’t know. He’s been devoting so much attention to Draco over the past several weeks. He can’t remember whether Hermione’s mentioned it or not.

“Oh, I’ll be at the Burrow. Mum and Dad want to go back to Australia,” Hermione says lightly. 

Harry and Ron exchange a look. Hermione’s parents are a touchy subject right now. It turns out that people can change a lot in the span of one year; her father wasn’t even sure he wanted to come back to England. For a while, all Hermione would tersely say on the subject was that things were tense. Harry’s not wholly sure what that means, but he knows enough not to press for details.

“Well, I’m sure Mrs. Weasley will be glad to have you. She loves a full table,” Harry says.

“That she does. Ginny’s bringing Luna, and Mr. Lovegood is joining us too,” Ron says, clearly eager to move the conversation along. “You could… urgh, I can’t believe I’m saying this… bring Malfoy too, if he decides to join you.”

“Ron!” Hermione says, eyes bright, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thanks,” Harry says, surprised. “I don’t think anyone is ready for that, though.”

“Thank Merlin,” Ron says with a sigh. 

Harry shakes his head at his friend in amusement. “What would you have done if I said yes, and Draco agreed to come?”

“Stayed as far away as possible,” Ron admits, which is fair enough Harry supposes. Draco’s been quiet this year, and hasn’t started any fights, but he’s not exactly been nice either. Licking his wounds, Hermione called it, and clutching at the remainder of his pride.

“Well, I appreciate the offer. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll take you up on it,” Harry says. The idea of him and Draco spending Christmas with the Weasley family gives him more pleasure than he wants to admit. He’s not sure if it’s realistic, given the centuries of tension between the Malfoys and the Weasleys, but it’s nice to think about.

He gets up and says good night to his friends, then heads up to bed. Ron comes up not long after and gets into bed as well. Harry falls asleep relatively easily and doesn’t have too many nightmares, though he could’ve gone without being woken up by an owl pecking at him. He jerks awake with a yelp, kicking out unconsciously, and promptly hears the sound of an eagle owl hooting at him indignantly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry mutters, half-asleep, and fumbles with the note tied to its leg. The owl gives one more hoot, pecks against at his hand, and flies out the window.

“Wassit?” Ron slurs.

“Dunno.” Harry unrolls the scrap of parchment and squints at it. His heart begins to race when he recognizes the thin, formal handwriting. There’s only three words, but there’s no second-guessing who the sender is or what the message means. A big smile spreads across his face.

_Yes, I’ll come._


	5. Chapter 5

School runs late that year; it’s December 23rd before Harry boards the train to go home. Ron and Hermione opt to walk down to Hogsmeade with several other eighth year students so they can Apparate directly to the Burrow, but Harry doesn’t want to. While it might be faster, this is the last time he’ll get to take the train home for Christmas from Hogwarts. He wants to savour that.

He spends most of the trip with Ginny and Luna, playing chess with Ginny since Ron isn’t around to intervene while half-heartedly listening to Luna prattle on about magical creatures that only come out around Yule. Towards the end of the trip, he politely bids them both goodbye and leaves to change out of his school robes. Their twin knowing smiles suggest they know that his departure has nothing to do with changing, but Harry pretends not to notice.

He finds Draco in a small room towards the end of the train. These rooms aren’t as popular because the smell of smoke is stronger here, which is probably why Draco sought one out. He’s alone, which Harry fully expected, but at least it means that no one looks at Harry twice for slipping inside and taking a seat opposite Draco. 

“Almost there,” he says.

“Obviously,” Draco says without looking up from his potions book.

“What do you want to do first?” Harry asks, not minding the prickly response. He’s come to realize that Draco gets snarky when he’s feeling unsure or, dare Harry say it, worried. 

“Do?” Draco echoes, raising his head. “Aren’t we going to your house?”

“Well, yes. But we’re not going to just sit around for two weeks. There’s loads to be done!”

“Like what?”

Harry blinks. “Err. We’ll need to get a tree and put up some decorations?” He thinks back over the Christmases from when he was young, and the handful of holidays he witnessed at the Burrow. “We’ll need to get food for Christmas dinner, and maybe some ingredients for baking.”

“Baking?” Draco repeats, sounding a bit horrified.

“I like baking,” Harry says, amused in spite of himself. That and gardening were the two chores that he used to enjoy growing up. He actually thinks Draco will be good at baking too, if only because Draco is so accomplished at Potions. Both require a level of attention and precision that seems to come naturally to Draco.

Draco stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re…”

“I’m what?”

“Nothing,” Draco says finally, shaking his head. He mutters something under his breath that may or may not be the word ‘mental’. Harry tactfully decides to ignore it.

The train pulls into the station and they both stand up. Their trunks are already on the platform when they emerge from the train. Harry casts a shrinking charm on both and tucks them into his pocket, then offers an arm to Draco. Draco’s mouth pinches even as his cheeks turn pink; he looks like the last thing he wants to do is take Harry’s arm, but eventually he does.

“Hold on,” Harry murmurs, and turns on his heel.

Grimmauld Place looks much the same on the outside as it did during the war. Harry hasn’t put much effort into restoring it yet, mostly because until now he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to do with it. He leads Draco across the street and up the crickety, old steps. Perhaps over the break he’ll get into contact with some wizarding contractors. That must be a thing, surely? They could start the work while he’s at Hogwarts for his final semester and have the house ready by summer.

Draco wrinkles his nose when he catches his first glimpse of Grimmauld Place. “Bloody hell, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry says. And the thing is, it’s better than it was. He, Ron, Hermione and Ginny spent several days cleaning up in here before they returned to Hogwarts, and he can tell Kreacher has made even more progress since. Harry casts a skeptical eye over the front room and decides that it’s probably safe to have a toddler around.

He turns to Draco. “Do you want to come shopping with me, or would you prefer to stay here?”

“I’ll stay,” Draco says, very quietly, and Harry’s not at all surprised.

“Okay. I won’t be long.” Impulsively, he steps closer and stoops a little to press a kiss to Draco’s cheek. The fleeting embarrassment is well worth the wide-eyed look on Draco’s face and soft squeak he gets in return. Harry grins and heads out.

He spends the next two hours shopping, trying to pick up everything he imagines they’ll need over the next few days – and that includes a few presents for Christmas morning. Harry’s never really had a proper Christmas; by the time he got presents, he was eleven and at Hogwarts and it just wasn’t the same. But he remembers the childlike wonder on Dudley’s face when they got up on Christmas morning and Dudley saw his presents, and he really wants to replicate that feeling for Draco.

Because he has the feeling that Draco didn’t get that either.

Harry’s humming softly by the time he returns to Grimmauld Place, shrunken packages hidden all over his body. He walks into the house to find it seemingly empty; he heads for the kitchen and puts away the food before curiosity gets the better of him and he seeks out Draco. It takes a little while, and he finally finds Draco upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, sound asleep.

He decides to leave Draco there, and heads back downstairs to set the tree up. That proves to be a mistake. Harry drops the tree on the floor when the first cry echoes through the house; by the time the second, heart-rending sob of fear follows, Harry is sprinting up the steps. He rushes into Draco’s bedroom just in time to see Draco lurch upright and vomit on himself, right before he bursts into tears.

“Oh, Draco,” Harry breathes, hurrying over to him. He vanishes the sick and then, upon getting a whiff of the distinct smell of urine, does a second vanishing spell, followed by a drying charm.

Draco is curled over, sobbing into his hands. Harry hesitates for a second before taking a seat on the bed. His decision proves correct when, after a gentle touch to his arm, Draco turns and throws himself into Harry’s arms. He breaks down crying on Harry’s shoulder. Comforting people has never been Harry’s strong point by any stretch of the imagination, yet it feels perfectly natural to wrap his arms around Draco and rock him back and forth. He strokes Draco’s hair and lets the toddler cry.

“It’s You-Know-Who. He’s gonna kill me,” Draco sobs.

“No, baby, no. He can’t hurt you anymore,” Harry says, his stomach twisting. He never knew that Draco had nightmares about Voldemort, but it’s not surprising considering how long Draco spent in close proximity to that monster. 

“He’s gonna – gonna –”

“No. I won’t let him,” Harry says firmly, holding Draco tighter. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Draco whimpers softly but doesn’t argue, instead pressing his wet face to Harry’s shoulder. His thumb gravitates to his mouth and he sucks it as he cries. Harry reaches for his wand and casts a featherlight charm, then stands up with Draco in his arms. He carries Draco out of the room and back downstairs, where there’s more room to move around and where Draco won’t have to be near the bed where he had such a nasty dream.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Harry says over and over again, feeling utterly useless. How does one comfort a crying child? Aunt Petunia always used to give Dudley sweets, but he doubts that a Chocolate Frog or a Cauldron Cake is going to be enough to comfort Draco right now.

But… maybe something new would?

“Hey Draco, guess what?” Harry whispers, trying to make himself sound excited. “I was out shopping today and I found something that I think you’re going to really like. It’s a Christmas present, though. What would you think if we opened it a little early?”

Draco’s crying tapers off slightly and he slowly lifts his head to look Harry in the face. Harry’s breath catches. He’s never seen Draco look this _young_ before. His eyes are wide and silvery with tears, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His lips are pursed around his thumb, except for when he has to take a great, hiccoughy gulp of air. He stares at Harry in silence.

Harry tries to smile and gently brushes a strand of hair off Draco’s forehead. “Would you like that, baby?” he asks softly. This is uncharted territory and he can only hope that he’s doing it properly; he and Draco never really talked about what Harry should do when Draco gets upset. He realizes now that they probably should have. They’ve gone about this all wrong.

He doesn’t get an answer, but Draco isn’t wailing anymore, so Harry takes that as a positive sign. He keeps a smile on his face and moves over to where he stored all his packages from earlier. Draco wraps thin arms around Harry’s neck and watches in silence until Harry finds the two packages that he wants. He holds them in one hand, clutching Draco with the other, and walks back to the couch.

They sit down together; it takes him a little shifting to find a comfortable way for Draco to sit on his lap, but Harry manages. The dried smell of urine drifts by Harry’s nose and, behind Draco’s head, he wrinkles it. Vanishing charms have never been his strong point, which is pretty obvious right now. He wonders if, while in his headspace, they might have to talk about Draco wearing some kind of protection. Even if it’s just while Draco sleeps, to prevent future bed-wetting episodes if and when Draco has a nightmare.

“Okay, let’s see. What do we have here?” Harry waves his wand to reverse the shrinking charm, letting the packages grow back to normal size. “Shall we see?”

Very slowly, he pulls at the package until white fur peeps through. Draco’s eyes grow about three sizes and he immediately starts clawing at the paper until the stuffed white bunny is visible. It’s got white fur, green eyes, and velvety pink ears. Draco picks it up and clutches the bunny against his chest, squeezing his eyes shut with another, quieter sob.

“I thought you’d like that,” Harry says quietly, running a hand through Draco’s hair. He’s pretty sure Draco doesn’t have a toy of his own. The Room supplies them all.

The second package is less exciting; it’s a brand new book and a dummy. Draco looks at the dummy like it’s going to jump up and bite him, and Harry has to bite his lip to hold back a laugh. It’s green with a blue band, actually a children’s dummy, and Harry’s resized it as best he can to suit an adult. He’s positive that there are adult dummies out there, but he’s not sure where to find them.

“Come on, thumb out,” Harry says, gently but firmly, and holds the dummy up. He remembers Aunt Petunia scolding Dudley for sucking his thumb because his hands were always dirty, and he figures Draco is probably the same way.

A glint of something stubborn flickers through Draco’s eyes. He scowls at the dummy and shakes his head.

“Draco,” Harry starts, then stops. It feels automatic to try and argue with him, but this is Draco Malfoy they’re talking about. He looks at Draco for a few seconds, then softens his tone. “Baby, have you ever tried a dummy? It’s just you and me. I won’t judge you.”

Draco screws his nose up. 

“You might like it,” Harry coaxes gently. “Then you can hold your toy with one hand and the book with the other, right?”

It’s obvious that’s the argument that gets through to him, because Draco looks from the bunny to the book and frowns. He reluctantly slides his thumb from his mouth and keeps his lips parted, so Harry takes that as permission and slides the dummy in. His heart squeezes in his chest over how adorable Draco is at that moment. He didn’t know he could feel this affectionate towards anyone. It would be scary if it didn’t feel so damn good.

“That’s my good boy,” Harry murmurs. “Now, how about we read some?” He settles back against the couch and opens the book across Draco’s lap. Rather than hold onto the book, Draco opts to clutch the toy with one hand and hold onto Harry’s shirt with the other. He leans his head on Harry’s shoulder, sucking slowly at the dummy. Harry breathes in the scent of vanilla shampoo and can’t resist pressing a kiss to Draco’s incredibly soft hair, then resting his cheek atop Draco’s head as he starts to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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